Resurrection
by SadisticxBoredom
Summary: Some people say that solitude and the feeling of being boxed in can cause cabin fever, but who would have ever thought that William W. Wonka would have grown in the mold of that expectation?


Resurrection

Disclaimer: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory doesn't belong to me, though secretly, Wonka is my lover. 3

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Some people say that solitude may cause cabin fever. Others say that it causes you to go mad, or to become hard, cold with your own emotions dying as the seconds drag on with the movements of a clock, the ticking slow and depressive. There's always someone to lift you up, even if it's a product, a figment of your own mind. Willy Wonka had someone like this once, but after an accident, he died a slow, painful, neurotic death. He always had missed his beloved Charlie Bucket, the boy whom was like a brother, even a son to him, though he was too afraid of his own touch, even the love of others for the fear of death by germs. It was funny, he knew, that he was afraid of something that he couldn't see, though it was always like that---well, always after his father had moved their building to a place in the hills. A gaping space, it's still there today, rests dormant in the mind of the aged chocolatier.

The factory began to decay after the death of his heir. Wonka began to care less and less with each passing day. The wonderful ideas that flew so freely from his brilliant mind became dull and listless, a meaningful dent in his feeling becoming a crater as he realized that he was truly alone once more. It wasn't that he could help it, however. With time the mind grows, and his certianly did. The sudden realization of his depression came crashing down one morning, and every one of the oompa loompas were fired, each one of them fleeing to a different place. Candy stopped being produced, and the machines became rusted and were more like pieces of old metal that are usually found in the fields where people leave their broken down cars, the histories of them usually brilliant and meaningful. Every one of them were with their own stories, tales of triumph, some of them funny with the disasters, the chewing gum incident being one of the most famous.

Of course, he didn't ever need to make the candy. At the moment, his wealth was so high that he could live for centuries on the Wonka-Vite and live in luxury, though fame and fortune always came with a price. Ten years had passed after Charlie's death. His heir's family had moved from the factory to a new house on a lovely suburban street, the memory of the loss never impacting at all. It was also extremely strange, however, the sudden drop in the candy sales---even of other producers. What was being sold still was the last they kept in stock, and it was rare for a child or adult to buy it. It wasn't unusual for Wonka to recieve calls about it, though they were thinning with the years. He basically guessed that everyone realized what he had done, stopped making everyone's vain pleasure, and just stopped bothering.

It always bugged him, however, that nothing in Charlie's room had been touched. Of course, he longed to see him again, but it wasn't possible. The man just couldn't bring himself to look at any of his things or a picture, and the hallway that held his room and a private bathroom lay in fragmented ruins, the floor warping and in the bathroom, rotting. His glamorous suits as well became dull and ripping, new ones being purchased rarely if never. His hair, which after the oompa loompas had left had grown long, was rarely kept long. Even if it looked worse, it was cut and he felt better. A slight fabric of the man he once was still lingered, if that was it. If you took a look at him without paying attention, you wouldn't know he was. His teeth were his only pride anymore. It was almost as if it was Halloween, or if it could be April Fools he'd be happier. Every now and then he always looked around the corner, expecting and half-hoping Charlie to jump out and yell 'April Fools, Mr. Wonka!', though it always hurt him so much that he couldn't.

Fingers tapped idly on the old mahogany of a decrepit chair, shadows littering the room that it was currently in. The room was empty except for a once brilliant window, and it reached from window to floor. If it was clean, you could see through it and across the city, though it was dingy and dirty from the elements outside. The paint, which once was a deep scarlet with bright gold calligraphy-style decorations, was faded and peeling on the walls. The floor was also once of an expensive dark hardwood was warped, and there were nails missing in places. One had to have exquisite footing to find his or her way without falling. Feet in dull, tearing black boots lay crossed on that floor, dust circling where they weren't touching the wood. A red coat, which had patches in places, was fallen around a man whom was mostly shadowed in the chair, his face covered with scraggly hair and the tilt of an old, faded top hat in which the sash ripped ages ago. New purple gloves, which stuck out compared to everything else, made a light squeaking noise as he clenched his hand into a fist.

Even if you stood a few feet away, you couldn't see where his face met his neck, barely, anyways. He had gotten paler with age. His eyes had gotten darker, however. The tears had stopped coming after a while, and he was mostly tired whenever he didn't eat, which was mostly now, anymore. It actually had a reason---it wasn't because he thought he was fat, or something as stereotypical as that, it was mainly because he intended to die with his secrets alone. His recipes, which were cunning and smart, had been burned and only existed in his own mind. After a moment or so, he looked up, the hat sliding to the other side of his head. Deep brown eyes gazed over the room, an emotionless sigh escaping from his pale pink lips before he shut his eyes, lowering his head again. Dust made glittering spirals in the dim light that managed to find its way through the grime of the large window when he took an intake of air, blowing it out just as quickly.

Mr. William W. Wonka had been in this room for two days now, in the same chair, in the same position, deeply in thought. What kept running through his mind was the same thing, over and over, the simple phrase taking control, it being 'What if I could create life?'. Being able to create life was something that would make him god, and that was something he didn't believe in. A silent stand was the next action as his feet unfolded, letting the man be upright. The coat lightly blew in the sudden rush of dead air, his hat nearly falling to the floor. A hand instinctively grabbed it strongly, making him wince as he pulled too hard, causing a bit of the fabric to rip. Ah, well. It was okay---he had expected it. His right hand rested on the doorknob once he had taken a few steps towards the door, opening it, and then carefully shutting it behind him once he was a few steps out.

A rusted gold sign lay dormant on the mahogany, and it read 'Thought Room no. 3'. It was where he came most often anymore, just to think. However, as he left the small, completely black hallway, he entered the glass elevator with ease, pressing the button for the Inventing Room. It felt strange to press the clear button, but he had to go, to at least try to get this thought from his mind. He wasn't like Dr. Frankenstein, to create something that even satan would find appalling, compared to his own minions. He leaned against the side of the elevator, gazing longingly at the scenes that unfolded before him. Fudge Mountain, the Candy Cotton Sheep Room---ergh. Everything was empty and quiet, but he found it discomforting that it was as it had seemed to be. The elevator came to a creaking stop as he reached the rather large room, the doors opening slowly and whining from lack of oil.

"Let's play god," he mumbled, a half-crazed smile appearing on his face as another thought seemed to wriggle into his mind. Charlie, yes. Yes. And, he went to work, fixing up the machines he needed. Little did the man know that he'd be in there for months, working towards something that was more like a personal goal and disasterous secret than a gift.


End file.
